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Chapter Seven
~ Mars ~
In a way, I hated coming here. It hurt to see the victims of abuse, to see the kids who’d been hurt, the women who’d been battered. It was even worse to know some of them, about half, would return to the very people who’d hurt them.
I wasn’t one to judge. Ever. I still lived where I’d been hurt. These women had left behind almost everything and escaped. My father, who had unimaginable power compared to them, wouldn’t budge from his mansion where his wife regularly attacked and belittled him. He had his reasons, too. Saving face. Saving his reputation. Never letting anyone know that abuse had happened to him, a man.
I smiled down at the little girl pulling at my pantleg in the main gathering room. I’d been coming here for a couple years, since the day I got my driver’s license, and I did whatever the staff wanted, following their strict interaction protocols and always remaining in public places with people around.
Today, I was cleaning in this room. For a double reason. It needed to be done, and it helped kids to know some men were safe.
“What’s up?” I asked, planting my hands on my hips and peering down at the child.
“Mr. Mars. You pway da piano?” She pointed at the upright across the room, a big round rug nearby it where kids sat while listening.
I looked to my supervisor.
“Go ahead,” she said. “It’ll keep the little ones occupied while we get this finished.” She dropped her sponge into her bucket, then wiped her damp hands on her jeans before clapping. “Okay, everyone. Who wants story-music time with Mr. Mars?”
I’d like to say a cheer went up, but some of these little ones were afraid to make even the tiniest sound. I knew once I started, they’d wander over, though.
After drying off my own hands, I headed over to the piano. Funny thing… I used to sneak away at school and play. I’d thought I’d have to miss it, since I wasn’t allowed to touch the baby grand at the mansion. I’d actually been sad about graduating and not being able to spend as much time playing. For damn sure, I had a nice instrument ordered for my condo. And I’d play it whenever I wanted.
Of course, I played here a lot. I’d made a beeline to the piano at the shelter one day, just itching to make some music. The rest was history, as they say.
No one in my family knew I played, that I was remotely musical. My mother considered it something for women only. Yet, she thought it beneath her. I’d secretly paid for my own lessons, letting everyone think I was hanging out with my friends. I’d gotten pretty good, and I couldn’t wait to take more lessons in college.
I was supposed to be taking only business courses along with my prereqs. I’d enrolled for two music courses, though. I might not be able to major in music since I was in line to take over my father’s company, Kennedy Equipment—the number three company in the nation after Caterpillar and John Deere, and edging closer to the second spot every day—but I could minor in it. I had every intention of doing that.
Knowing how it relaxed me, seeing what it did here, bringing people to life, I knew I couldn’t leave it behind.
Children and a couple moms gathered around the braid-style rug while I settled behind the piano that was positioned sideways to where they sat, so we could see each other.
“Okay… Let’s warm up,” I said, flexing my fingers then tripping them across the keys. I hit a bunch of bad notes, making exaggerated faces that had the kids laughing.
“I think I’m ready now. Let’s start with an easy one.” I played a few complicated bars from Mozart then stopped and looked at them. “You don’t know the words to that one?”
“No,” they yelled.
“Okay…how about…” I started playing Row, Row, Row Your Boat, and in minutes, had a children’s chorus singing along with me. I didn’t have a great singing voice, but it was good enough to help them along. After a few rounds, we segued into London Bridge. I kept playing until my boss came over and leaned against the back of the upright and mouthed, Snack.
I finished up the fifteenth verse of Old MacDonald, having let the kids fill in any animal they wanted for each one. That song was always a good way to include everyone.
“Snack time!” I yelled. “Who wants Kool-Aid!”
Having sufficiently wound them up, I sent them off then headed into the kitchen.
“How are you doing, Marshall?” Monika, the center’s director, asked me when I joined her in placing goldfish into Dixie cups. A multitude of tiny braids hung down to the middle of her back, some strung with silvery gray.
“Good.”
She raised her eyebrow at me while never missing a beat. Monika never let me get away with shit.
I sighed. “She beat him up again. But he says he fell. I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling. And one of the maids had bruises on her arm from her.”
I never signified it was my mother I spoke about, but Monika knew. An astute woman, she’d realized my dark situation within weeks of me coming here then gently pulled it out of me.
“Are you okay, though?”
